


Behind the Yellow Line

by sunrose



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Misogyny, M/M, dennis is getting better though, it's an AU but they're still the same assholes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-09 17:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11109393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunrose/pseuds/sunrose
Summary: Dennis isn't interested in a train conductor, that's just bizarre. Mac isn't in love with the curly-haired commuter who sits in the same seat every day.Commuter Rail AU





	1. Tickets

**Author's Note:**

> If you're thinking "Did this person seriously write a public transportation themed Macdennis AU?" the answer is yes bitch, I did. 
> 
> Based on one of my [everyday macdennis au's](http://rosemac.tumblr.com/post/159528993840/more-everyday-macdennis-aus-dennis-takes) posted on Tumblr.
> 
> I've only been to Philly twice in my life and I've never taken their public transportation. All information on the train system is based on some investigative Googling and my experience with commuter rails in other cities. Also, if you live in any of the towns mentioned I sincerely apologize if I'm not completely on point. Wikipedia only helps so much. 
> 
> Enjoy.

Dennis rushes down the sixth platform of Suburban Station, his brown Ferragamo oxfords clacking on the concrete as he races to catch the 6:35 train out of Philly.

He wouldn’t be in this predicament right now—running toward the nearest open car door a minute before departure—if it weren’t for his goddamn bitch of a boss. For the past few months he'd been exiting his office in Center City promptly at ten after six, leaving him ample time to walk over to the station. Once inside, he'd journey to the very end of his train's platform where the first car opened its doors. That one was always the least congested, and finding an empty two-seater in any other car was near impossible. He refused to squish in those tiny, sticky seats next to some sleep deprived commuter who’d doze off on his shoulder with their disgusting face after a long day of meaningless drivel at their shitty, directionless job.

Admittedly that had never actually happened to Dennis while on the commuter rail, but the thought was enough to have him gagging.

Today, however, on a 95 degree Friday in the middle of June, his boss just _had_ to go and assign an _urgent_ task at 6:05 pm. There was no way in hell he could have finished her request within five minutes, but he did manage to half-ass the work in about twenty. That had left him with only several minutes to haul himself over to Suburban Station. He didn't want to wait until the 7:25 train to get all the way back to Elwyn—he still rues the day Mandy had chosen to move out west with their son instead of Philly proper, money be damned—especially since he's supposed to pick up Brian for the weekend.

So, here he is, sprinting down the empty, hot platform in his five-hundred dollar shoes, tie and shirt chafing against his sweaty neck with each lunge forward.

It’s during moments like these when Dennis wishes he hadn’t had his… _incident_ three months ago. He misses the air-conditioned privacy of his Range Rover, the ability to leave work whenever he so pleased, the convenience of his building’s parking garage.

Not the traffic, though. Definitely not that.

Dennis is panting when finally nears the open door. He slows to a jog, then to a hurried walk as he makes his final steps. When he crosses the threshold into the train, he's immediately hit with the dank smell of sweat he’d become all to familiar with during peak rush hour over the summer. He frowns in disgust, nose twitching at the unfortunate stench.

One glance around the car makes it clear he’ll have no luck finding somewhere suitable to sit: all the seats are occupied and a throng of commuters are crammed into standing room, hands latched onto the upper bars and looped overhangs for balance.

Suddenly, one of the conductors fishes out from the crowd, shooting Dennis a vaguely-annoyed but generally apathetic side-eye, and pulls the door closed behind him. Seconds later the train jolts to a start. The sudden movement topples Dennis into a group of suit-clad passengers huddled near the entrance, the sleeve of a tall man’s sweaty suit jacket colliding with his cheek.

“You alright?” the man asks, concerned.

Six weeks ago Dennis would have laughed humorlessly at the comment until the emotion bubbled up into a trembling rage. “Alright? Am I alright? What do you think, you damn fool?” he would have shrieked at the sight of his Mac foundation stained on the man’s ugly pinstripe suit, at the realization that his makeup had been ruined by an idiotic buffoon who decided to stand too close to the door. He would have wagged an accusatory finger at the clearly incompetent conductor, demanded to speak with whomever was driving the train, and wailed off some baseless threat of a lawsuit.

But current Dennis doesn’t want a repeat of what had happened on the highway. He’s trying to be better now, for Brian’s sake. He takes his meds regularly. He drinks less. He has a real job. He thinks of what Judy had said in one of their last sessions— _“Pretend you’re like the sea: inhale as the tide comes in, and as you exhale let all your anger disappear, washing over the shore like a wave.”_ At the time he thought the advice was placating social worker nonsense, meaningless gibberish that would only help a naive imbecile and not someone as well-versed in the language of psychology as a Penn graduate like himself, and instantly regretted his agreement with Mandy to see an anger-management therapist in addition to his psychologist.

Current Dennis inhales a shaky breath, forcing a fake, tight-lipped smile. “I’m fine. Sorry about that,” he manages.

The tall man looks satisfied and turns around. Dennis lets the smile fall from his lips and exhales. That goddamn bitch was right.

Dennis wades through the crowd toward the door to the next carriage, determined to make it all the way to the first car.

 

* * *

 

“Everything alright over there, buddy? Over.”

Mac glances down, dark brows furrowed at the crackly voice emanating from the walkie talkie perched on his belt. He rolls his eyes and turns.

“Charlie, I’m literally like five feet from you. You don’t have to use the walkie unless we’re in separate cars.”

Charlie shrugs and uses the motion to wipe his sweaty face with the shoulder of his short-sleeved button-up. He raises the walkie up to his mouth again and hunches as if he’s trying to hide from an unseen being. “Yeah I know man,” he whispers into the device, the words reverberating out of Mac’s hip in tandem, “but I’m trying not to disturb our paying customers, you know? Over.”

A woman sitting in the seat below Mac flashes him a glare. He inhales deeply and marches over to his coworker.

“You're being ridiculous. How is talking into the walkie any better than saying the words to my face?”

The shorter man rolls his eyes. “Well now that you’re standing right here it isn’t. God Mac, sometimes—”

“Alright, alright. Whatever,” Mac interrupts. Ordinarily he loves using the walkies as frequently as possible—they’re awesome and badass and super convenient—but right now he’s not in the mood. “Will you just collect the tickets from the other half of the car and I’ll get this end?”

Charlie quirks a brow, suspicious. “Now hold on. I reached out to you because you seem upset about something. What’s goin’ on man?”

“I’m upset? How am I upset?”

“You’re clearly upset!”

“I am not!”

“You are—I mean, just look at you.”

“What is that supposed to mean? And—and you’re the one who doesn’t look good,” Mac deflects, waving a hand toward Charlie’s body. “You’re sweating so hard you’re basically wet. You smell like trash, dude!”

Charlie opens his mouth and shirks backward, offended. “Excuse me? I’ll have you know that is the scent of fine aged cheese.”

“How is that any better?! Where did you even—” Mac glances over at the nearby seats where several passengers are staring at them with irritated expressions. “You know what, never mind,” he hisses, lowering his voice. “Just get the tickets.”

“Fine,” Charlie sighs, hands up in defeat. He turns around and pulls out his ticket puncher as he walks down the aisle. He squeezes on the item quickly, loud clicking noises echoing in the compartment. “Tickets!” he yells.

Charlie may be both Mac’s coworker and one of his closest friends, but he obviously has no clue what he’s talking about. He isn’t upset—why would he be? He had an awesome day: he woke up early, practiced some sweet karate moves, hit the gym to work on his bi’s and tri’s, _and_ checked every passenger’s ticket in his monitoring zones.

Mac takes his job very seriously. Conducting is important work. He needs to ensure everyone enjoys a pleasant and safe ride on the SEPTA regional rail. If necessary, he’ll be there to protect and serve his travelers, whether that means breaking out his black belt skills or using his ticket puncher as a deadly weapon. In exchange for these services, each passenger needs to pay their fares. That’s the law. And in the great country of America, the law and Constitution are sacred above all else.

It’s just, due to his committed attention to detail he’s begun to recognize some of the regular commuters. He always works the first car on the Elwyn Line both in and out of the city, and always has the same shifts during rush hours on weekdays. Inevitably he’s going to see the same people over and over again.

So maybe there’s one person in particular he looks forward to seeing. But it’s not a big deal or anything. Not that he’s still in denial about his sexuality—he came out a year ago and he’s infinitely more badass for it—and this person is totally a dude, like a gorgeous dude, but it’s nothing serious. Not really.

Mac started noticing the guy—pale skin, soft brown curls, blue eyes—about three months ago. He always gets on the first car on the 9:00 am train at Elwyn, sits in the same seat near the far right corner, and catches the 6:35 train home. He’s usually the first person to board at Suburban Station and sits in the same seat as his morning route if possible.

There’s something so effortless about the way the man walks down the car aisle each day, as if his body controlled the pull of gravity and not the other way around. Mac doesn’t know enough about physics to prove it for sure and he’s a Catholic man, but he’d be lying if he denied the guy’s presence felt almost godly. While he's no beefcake, the man seems fit despite his slender form and is uniquely handsome with a slightly crooked nose and pillowy lips. He's unlike anyone Mac’s ever seen before in his life. Granted he’s never been anywhere outside of Pennsylvania, but still. The guy’s special.

Mac thinks about him a lot. He wonders who he is, what he does, what his name could be. Mac bets it’s something fancy like Hugh or Vincent or Elliot. He’s probably some sort of rich financial guy with a 405k or whatever they call it.

Over the past few months Mac’s come to look forward to checking his ticket twice a day, to which the man always responds with a silent flash of his commuter card. The guy never makes any eye contact, but he’s always busy reading emails and shit on his iPhone. Maybe one day he’ll look up and talk to Mac for real.

Sometimes, on the way out to Elwyn when the sun starts to set in the sky, Mac looks over to him. He’s always sitting next to a window, his leather messenger bag spread across the empty seat beside him. In the warm, dimming light his features look softer, and Mac sees him differently. This time he’s not godly or exceptional. He’s only a man sitting on a train, tired and withdrawn. But he’s still beautiful, and special, and Mac wants to pick up his bag and drop it to the floor, occupy the space beside him, and pull his thin frame into his arms.

But today Mac can’t watch him. Strangely enough the man never showed up for the 6:35 train, even though he has been for the past three months. It’s possible he finished work earlier or later than usual and caught a different outbound train to Elwyn. Perhaps he has plans for dinner. Or maybe he had an accident, or he’s hurt, sick—

Okay, so maybe Mac’s upset.

“Do you need to see my ticket or…?”

The voice shakes Mac from his reverie, and he blinks his gaze down to the passenger below him. He’d been standing in front of the same seat for the past minute or so and the woman seems confused.

Mac squares his shoulders. “Obviously.”

With raised brows the woman offers her ticket. Mac tugs it from her grip and quickly punches two holes, then shoves it back into her hand.

He's about to move on to the next passenger when he hears the metallic _whoosh_ of the connecting car door open behind him and the subsequent _clack_ of it slamming shut. Mac turns his head and glances over his shoulder.

He double takes.

In front of the door stands Mac’s guy.

Several curly wisps have fallen loose from his perfectly-quaffed hair, framing his forehead. A sheen layer of sweat coats his face, his breaths are shallow, and his tie hangs off kilter.

A giddy wave of relief washes over Mac and he can’t help the dopey smile that begins to tug on his lips. He curbs it quickly with a swallow.

By now the man is scanning the compartment, eyes searching for a viable seat. Mac knows he’ll never share with another passenger, so he’s not surprised when the man scrambles over to the only open seat left in the car, which happens to be about two feet down on the left from where Mac currently stands. The guy lowers himself without much finesse and plops his bag next to him. He leans his head back, eyes closed, and sighs.

Ordinarily Mac would finish collecting in order instead of skipping ahead to anyone else—he has a foolproof system, okay—but right now he’s too overwhelmed to care. He steps down the aisle until the man’s seat is beside him. He still has his eyes closed when Mac turns to face him, either unaware of his presence or purposely ignoring it. For a moment Mac becomes mesmerized by the man's profile, eyes tracing over his eyelids, the slope of his nose, the discolored smudge of makeup on his cheek.

Then Mac clears his throat.

At the sound the man blinks open his eyes, startled. He turns his head toward Mac. Their eyes meet.

Suddenly Mac forgets what the hell he’s supposed to say and he stands there with his lips parted, dumbly silent and heart pounding.

“Yes?” the man asks, cool voice laced with impatience.

“Oh, uh,” Mac stumbles, “Can I uh, see your ticket please?”

The man inhales through his nose and sits up straighter. He pulls his bag onto his lap, opens the zipper, and reaches inside.

Mac watches as he rummages for several seconds, long fingers scraping along the bottom of the bag. He then furrows his brows and opens the item wider to peer inside. “It’s here, one moment,” the man breathes as he continues to search.

The man’s cool disposition unwinds as he starts to quickly unzip compartments within the bag. “Goddamnit,” he curses under his breath, fingers now digging into his suit pockets.

Mac’s never seen him this disheveled and frantic—usually he has his card ready as soon as he arrives—and it sends a strange pang through his chest.

“It’s okay,” Mac blurts. “I know you.”

The man stops, surprised, and gives Mac a strange look.

“I just—I mean I’ve seen you around here. I know you have a card, so it’s okay if you can’t find it.”

Something Mac can’t quite recognize passes over the man’s face, expression softening, but it’s gone within a moment to be replaced by his earlier cool facade. “Okay. Thanks,” he responds curtly.

Mac doesn’t know if he’ll ever get another opportunity, so he goes for it. “I’ll need your name though,” he says as he pulls out a pen and a stack of unused tickets from his belt. “You know, for security reasons. It’s new protocol.”

The man furrows his brows for a moment, then blinks and sighs. “Weird, but fine. Dennis Reynolds.”

 _Dennis,_ Mac thinks to himself. He frowns, considering it, then shrugs. _Didn’t think of that one._

“What?”

Mac blanches as he realizes he’d said the words out loud. “Uhh nothing,” he stammers as he rips off one of the tickets, flips it around to the blank side and scribbles _Dennis Reynolds._ “You’re all set, Dennis. Have a good night.” Then he whirls around, attempting to hide his rapidly reddening face, and walks down the aisle.

Charlie is closer than he realized—he must have already finished his zone—and he’s staring at Mac with concern.

“What’s up, dude?” Mac asks when he’s near, swallowing back the combination of giddiness and embarrassment lodged in his throat.

“Can I speak with you for a moment?” Charlie whispers with a not-so-indiscreet head nod to the closest car door.

Mac follows Charlie and closes the door behind them. They’re alone in the metal connecting chamber between cars and it’s quiet save for the train rumbling over the tracks below them.

“So what do you need to tell me?”

Charlie raises his brows. “What do I need to tell you? More like what do you need to tell me!”

Mac sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Charlie, c’mon—”

“Don’t play coy with me, man. I heard you talking about new security protocols. How come I haven’t been brought into the loop on this? Am I being pushed out? Am I Mac?! Because management will be dealing with me if so, and that’s not something they want to do. Oh-ho, you should see all the dirt I have on them—I’ve got buckets of dirt, Mac! Buckets!”

“Oh my god Charlie, you’ve lost your mind,” Mac whines as he runs a hand through his slicked back hair, knocking pieces loose. He sighs. “There’s no new security protocol, okay?”

The shorter man knits his brows, then his face drops completely. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah, I made it up.”

“Why would you do that?” Charlie asks, still confused. “Was that guy some kind of threat? Should I alert the authorities?”

“What? No, dude—no, he’s fine.”

“Then why—”

“I just wanted to know his name, okay!”

Charlie stops, taken back by Mac’s sudden outburst. After a moment his lips bloom into a smug smile.

“Stop,” Mac grumbles, looking away.

“So you like him, huh?”

“Charlie—”

“No no wait, I remember him. You’re always staring at that one. You’re a borderline stalker, man.”

Mac's eyes dart to his friend, outraged. “Are you kidding me? I’m not stalking him—he’s the one who comes into my place of work every day! Plus, how can you even say that? You’ve been stalking the Waitress for years!”

“Hey,” Charlie snaps, pointing his index finger toward Mac’s chest. “That’s true love. That’s not stalking.”

“You won’t leave her alone even though she’s told you millions of times she’s not interested in you!”

“Well, yes.”

“That’s literally the definition of stalking, man!”

“Semantics, Mac, semantics.”

Mac throws his hands up in the air, exasperated. “You know what, I’m done with this conversation right now.”

“Fine,” Charlie counters.

They’re silent for a moment. Then, “We still cool to hang out tomorrow?”

“Of course, man,” Mac replies.

 

* * *

 

It takes exactly 47 minutes to arrive at Elwyn from Suburban Station, Dennis has calculated.

As the train approaches the last stop, Dennis steps out from his seat and walks down the aisle to the nearest door. There’s only about six other passengers left in this car, but he still wants to be the first to exit. He hates waiting in line.

He makes it to the end of the car and holds onto a pole for support—there’s no need for a repeat of his earlier debacle when the train inevitably jerks to a stop. When the other individuals begin to form a queue, Dennis flashes a warning glance at the man inching too close behind him.

Soon enough the train slows its speed and creeps to a final, shaky stop. One of the conductors—a short, fevered-looking man who’s far too sweaty even with the current heat—pulls the door open from the other side and locks it in place. The outside door is already open, letting in a wave of cooler air, and the conductor kicks loose some metal slab from the floor that pops open and reveals the stairs. The small man bounces down them and walks out onto the concrete.

Dennis takes that as the green light to leave, so he follows suit, quickly crossing into the metal cabin between cars before anyone else tried to cut ahead. He holds onto the metal railing as he descends the stairs. As he hops onto the ground from the last elevated step, the short conductor sends him a nod and strangely smug grin.

Dennis returns a half-assed one of his own that quickly recedes into an awkward cringe at the sight of the man's matted hair and sweat-soaked uniform.

He walks down the platform and crosses into the parking lot area. Lifting his wrist he checks the time on his watch. It’s 7:23 pm, which leaves him plenty of time to drive over to Swarthmore to pick up Brian from Mandy’s. He’d told her he’d be there by eight at the latest.

Luckily he’d gotten one of the closest parking spots to the station this morning. As he approaches his Range Rover, he digs one hand into his bag to retrieve his keys.

His brows furrow when he doesn’t feel them where he remembers placing them earlier today. Pulse quickening, he pulls open the side compartment and checks there. Nothing.

Dennis’ heart is slamming in his chest and he feels a wave of panic coming on. There’s no way he could have forgotten both his commuter card and keys at the office, that would be absurd. They must have fallen out when he was rummaging through the bag earlier trying to find his card.

He feels a scream threaten to bubble up into his throat, but instead he channels his anxiety into storming out of the parking lot and back onto the train platform. All of the passengers have already exited the train by now based on all the closed doors, but he spots the same short conductor from earlier standing outside the first car where Dennis had gotten off.

“Wait!” he yells, jogging down the platform.

The sweaty man doesn't react to Dennis' call, instead stepping up the stairs to shut down the steps from inside. When he arrives, Dennis is out of breath.

“Wait, I need to get on the train,” he pants.

“Sorry sir, no can do," the conductor says, still focused on the door. "This is the last stop. We're going on standby.”

Dennis flutters his eyelids, refraining from rolling his eyes completely. “I know that. I don’t need to go anywhere, I left something on the train.”

"Ehh, I don't know. Protocol states—"

At that moment another conductor steps into the open car door from within the train.

“Charlie will you hurry u—"

The man stops when he spots Dennis. 

It's the same conductor from earlier, Dennis recognizes, the raven-haired one with the stubble and trashy dragon tattoo on his forearm. The guy had been lenient enough to let him ride without his card, so maybe Dennis would have more luck convincing him to get back onto the train. 

"Hi, I think you'll remember me. I'm Dennis, from before?" 

It's getting dimmer in the dying light, but Dennis swears the man blushes. "Yeah, of course." 

"Right. Well see, funny thing. I think I left my keys on the train. Could you please let me on board so I can get them?" 

"Oh," the man responds. He almost seems disappointed.

The shorter conductor—Charlie, he presumes—looks over at Mac with interest and then flicks his gaze down at Dennis for the first time since he showed up. His brows raise and the same weird, smug smile forms on his lips as earlier. He pats the taller man on the bicep. 

"I'm gonna go check for rats," Charlie states before walking off into the car of the train. 

The tattooed conductor huffs out an exaggerated laugh. "He's a funny one that one. There's no rats on here, obviously. I mean that would be gross right? But there's totally not any."

Dennis doesn't really care if the whole thing is infested, he just wants his keys. He doesn't need another fuck up regarding his son. The least he can do is show up on time.

"Great. Can I get on the train?" Dennis presses. 

"Oh, yeah of course," the conductor says, unlocking the steps Charlie had just closed. "You can—" 

The conductor doesn't get to finish because Dennis is already marching up the stairs and pushing past him to get back into the first car. 

He rushes down the aisle until he finds the two-seater he was in earlier. There's nothing on the seat. He bends over, ducking down to check underneath. Nothing.

Maybe he's mistaken about the exact seat now that the train's empty. He looks in the two-seater in front of his current one. Then behind it.

Nothing. 

Pulse quickening once more, Dennis paces down the aisle, head whipping back and forth as he checks each seat to his left and right. 

"No no no no," he murmurs.

When he reaches the end of the car with no keys in sight, his hands are trembling. He runs one through his hair. "Shit." 

He feels like screaming. Kicking something. Even lying down on this disgusting laminate floor and crying, rats or not. 

 _"Like the sea,"_ Dennis whispers as he exhales a shaky breath. _"Let it go, like the sea."_

"Hey, you okay?" 

Startled, Dennis whirls around. The tattooed conductor is standing behind him, brows raised and puppy-dog brown eyes shining in the fluorescent light. It's the same expression he'd worn earlier when he'd told Dennis it was okay if he didn't have his commuter card. As before, it makes something soft flutter in Dennis' chest. 

Overwhelmed and anxious, Dennis ignores the feeling. It's pissing him off. Who does this guy even think he is? He's a nobody blue-collar conductor with over-gelled hair, bad tattoos, and stupid eyes. Why won't he just leave him alone?

"I'm fine," Dennis snaps. 

"Okay," the conductor says, but he doesn't look like he believes it. "Did you find your keys?" 

Dennis purses his lips and raises his chin, attempting to control his emotions. "No, I have not." 

The man cringes and brings a hand to rub at his scruffy chin. He turns his head back and forth, a wisp of gelled hair that had fallen out place bobbing back and forth as he looks around. "I don't see anything from here."

"Yeah, I already checked." 

"Did you try underneath the seats?" 

Did this man think he was a fool? " _Yes_ , I already did." 

"All of them?" 

Dennis is about to roll his eyes and repeat his answer once more, but he realizes he hadn't inspected underneath every single seat, just the one he sat in.

"It's just 'cause sometimes all the motion slides stuff around and down the car," the man explains. "Or someone kicks it or something, you know?" 

Dennis concedes it's a good point. "I hadn't checked." 

The man's face lights up as if he was a child receiving a present on Christmas morning. "Don't worry, I'll look for you." 

Then the conductor is dropping to the ground and crawling underneath the seats. 

"What are you—" 

Before Dennis can finish, the man emits a loud gasp.

"Dude! I see them!" 

"Wait, really?" Dennis blurts, elated.

"Yeah they're a few seats down but—oh wait, nah. That's not them. That's—ew I think that's a crumpled condom wrapper." 

Dennis closes his eyes and inhales a deep breath. He doesn't have time for this. 

"You know what, forget it," he says, beginning to walk down the aisle. "I'll just order an Uber and get my spare from home." 

"Wait, Dennis," the conductor calls, clambering up from underneath the seat. Dennis rolls his eyes before turning around and facing the other man.

"Let's just check where you sat one more time, it could have gotten stuck between the seat and the wall." 

"I think I would have noticed that." 

The man, seemingly unaware of what he'd just said, walks past him down the other end of the car. Dennis sighs and follows. 

"It's one of these," Dennis says, waving a hand over the expanse of three two-seaters. "I can't remember for sure, but I think it's the middle one."

"It's the middle one," the conductor says matter-of-factly, like he's had it memorized for years. He steps into the booth, places one knee on the seat, and bends over. He bites his lip as he reaches down and squeezes his hand between the cushion and wall. 

Dennis is on the verge of explaining that this is a waste of time and that he's leaving when the man's eyes open wide, dark, expressive brows shooting up his forehead. The next thing he knows the conductor is pulling his arm out of the crevice, keys in hand. The man grins wide, smile slightly crooked but endearing. 

"Oh my god," Dennis breathes, lips parting into a genuine smile of his own.

"This them?" 

"Yes, yes that's them. Wow, I feel stupid." 

The conductor stands up and walks over. "Nah, this happens all the time," he shrugs. Dennis somehow doubts that, but he appreciates the gesture.

When the man extends the keys toward him, Dennis pulls them gently from his grasp. "Thanks—" 

"Mac," the conductor interrupts, dopey smile returning. 

Dennis wasn't asking for his name, but somehow he doesn't mind. He gives a closed-mouth smile and nods. "Well thanks, Mac, for your help." 

"No problem." 

Their eyes meet and Dennis immediately feels the need to flick them away, so he does. "Well, I should get going." 

"Right, yeah," Mac says. "Here, I'll walk you out." 

He follows Mac back to the door from which they entered. Mac stands beside the stairs and waves an arm. "After you." 

Dennis gives an awkward smile. He doesn't understand why Mac wouldn't just stay on the train, there's really no need for him to come outside, but whatever. He's too emotionally exhausted to ask questions right now. He steps down the stairs and hops out onto the concrete platform. Mac follows and within a moment he's next to Dennis, both standing behind the yellow line. 

"I'm glad you found your keys." 

Dennis clutches them in his hand. "Me too—thanks again." 

"You're welcome," Mac smiles, eyes soft in the warm, hazy light. 

Dennis should really get to Mandy's as soon as possible—he's already lost enough time. "Well, I should go. Goodnight."

"Right," Mac nods. "Have a nice weekend." 

"You too."  

Then Dennis is off, marching down the platform of Elwyn station to get back to his car. 


	2. Departure

"Who do you think would win in a battle—a centaur, a minotaur, or a satyr?"

Reclined on his apartment couch, Mac knocks back a swig from his tenth Bud Light of the night. He turns his head and glances at his friend across the room: Charlie’s snug within the grasp of Mac’s faded beanbag chair, huddled up in an oversized grey sweatshirt.

"Because a centaur has the raw power of a horse, y'know? And while in theory a bull could outmatch a horse because of its horns, I don't have too much faith in the human arm. And satyrs, well, they're wily folk."

Mac runs his free hand over his face and sighs. "Charlie, I have no idea what you're saying."

His friend cocks a doubtful brow. “Please, you can't tell me you haven't thought about this before."

"Uh, yeah I can. I've literally never thought about this in my entire life."

Charlie finishes his own beer and bends over to add it to his accumulating pile on the ground. After, he leans back into the circular comfort of the chair, his weight rustling the beans inside. “Well personally I believe I was half-horse in a past life, so I'm inclined to think the centaur would be victorious."

"There are no such things as past lives, Charlie. Reincarnation is a myth. God creates you and when you die you go to heaven."

Charlie squints his eyes. "Ehh, you can't know that for sure."

"Of course it's for sure. The Bible says—"

"Man, up until a year ago you were saying the Bible hated gay marriage and that all gay people were going to hell. Now look at you."

Mac frowns, eyes flicking to the ceiling. Something uneasy shifts in his chest but he’s too tipsy to think about it. "I was wrong about that. God loves everyone."

A silent pause passes.

"Do you think God loves centaurs?"

Mac returns his gaze to his friend, whose head is now nestled back into the bean bag, haloed by his sweatshirt hood. His eyes are closed.

“Sure, Charlie."

A content smile tugs at his friend’s lips. Within seconds he’s asleep on the bean bag chair, softly snoring.

Mac isn’t surprised—it’s late, and despite his smaller size Charlie had managed to keep up drink for drink, even outpacing him within the last hour alone. A preliminary scan reveals sixteen empty bottles stacked on the floor by his friend's seat. If it were last year, Mac would have finished just as many, if not more, due to his muscle-bound physique and natural heightened tolerance, but he’s been trying to decrease his alcohol consumption. He doesn’t want to end up a borderline alcoholic like Charlie. He wants to be better and more fit and stuff. Although Charlie did stop drinking lighter fluid, so he guesses that’s progress too.

With a deep yawn, Mac sit up from his reclined position. He huffs out a low groan as he reaches over to the coffee table to deposit his empty bottle next to the others. He’ll deal with cleaning up the mess tomorrow. Or, better yet, he’ll make Charlie do it.

Another yawn threatens to slip from his lungs, so he fishes his phone from his jeans’ pocket and checks the time. _2:03 am._

In his mid-twenties, two in the morning had felt like a half-way marker to gauge his evening escapades. Countless times he’d stumbled back into his apartment at nearly a quarter to five in the morning, drunk as hell and stinking of booze. Sometimes Charlie would be there too, high on God knows what, blabbing about spiders or ghouls or whatever weird demon was occupying his thoughts that week. Sometimes it’d be a woman there with him instead—he’d found fucking them was more enjoyable if he wasn’t sober.

It took him fifteen more years to admit he’d enjoy fucking them if they were men.

Mac spots the television remote next to the empty beers on the coffee table. Technically he could turn on some late-night ESPN or that channel with the badass bodybuilding infomercials—Charlie can sleep through anything—but even that sounds too tiring. Despite it being Saturday night, Mac welcomes the familiar ache of exhaustion tugging his body to sleep. Now, at forty years old, two o’clock feels like an acceptable time to end the night.

After pushing himself up and off the couch, Mac pads over to his bedroom. He flips off the apartment light before entering and then shuts the door behind him. He's too tired to change completely, so he unzips his jeans and pushes them down his legs, shimmying them off his feet as he approaches his mattress. He pulls back his comforter and slips inside wearing only his t-shirt and briefs.

Usually Mac’s excited for Sundays. It’s the Lord’s day, and even though he’s been going to church less often since he came out he still respects it’s sanctity. Plus, it’s the one day he never has shifts. But tonight he can’t help but wish he could skip over tomorrow and wake up on Monday morning instead. He wants to get back to work.

He wants to see him again.

Mac isn’t totally convinced yesterday actually happened; he's half expecting to jolt awake from a dream any minute now, finding himself in a reality where he never met Dennis. But the man’s name scrawled on the ticket slip resting on his bedside table reminds him that yeah, yesterday was real.

In addition to his sheer disbelief over the encounter, there's something else tugging at the strings in his chest. Dennis had always seemed so calm and refined when he’d board the train each morning and evening, but last night he'd been panicky and anxious. Maybe he’d had a bad day at work. Mac imagines Dennis in a fancy corner office, distressed as he watches stock numbers plummet from the flatscreen attached to his wall. He doesn’t really follow the market or the economy in general, though, so he isn’t sure if anything bad happened financially yesterday.

However, he can’t shake the feeling that it’s deeper, that whatever had Dennis so on edge was more than just a shitty work day. Mac remembers watching the man’s hands tremble from a few seats behind, hearing him whisper calming words to himself after he’d bolted down the empty car. The memory breaks open a pool of warmth in his chest and he soon begins reimagining the scene from last night, except this time instead of asking Dennis if he’s okay, Mac reaches out and intertwines their fingers, showing him with a silent squeeze that he’s not alone.

Whatever the cause of Dennis’ anxiety, he’d seemed much calmer after Mac had found his keys. Happier, even. He can’t believe he’d actually made him smile.

Mac’s last thought before he finally drifts to sleep is that he hopes he gets to do it again.

 

* * *

 

A series of sudden thumps wake Dennis from his slumber.

He inhales and slowly cracks open his crusted eyes, squinting to block the blades of light streaming onto his face through the window blinds. Logically he knows that means it's morning, but his body feels like it’s just been jerked awake in the middle of the night. With a groan, he leans over to his bedside table and taps his phone screen.

_5:22 am._

_“Shit,”_ Dennis mumbles, promptly flipping himself over and burying his face in his pillow. He’s forcing himself to fall back asleep—it’s Sunday morning, goddamnit, he deserves to stay in bed at least a few more hours before Brian wakes up—even if it’s at the risk of near suffocation.

Dennis doesn’t have much time to attempt doing so because several seconds later he hears the noises again, still muddled from behind his closed bedroom door but clearer now that he’s conscious. He's going to murder whichever inconsiderate, asinine neighbor of his decided to work construction or exercise or do whatever in God's fresh hell they were doing at five in the goddamn morning on a Sunday.

Okay, so he won't actually kill them. Maybe he'll send a strongly-worded email to his landlord, though.

Dennis’ stomach sinks with worry as it suddenly occurs to him that Brian could be making the noises. Reluctantly, he pushes himself up and out of his bed. He catches a glimpse of himself in his bureau mirror on the way out—unkempt curls, pale skin, dark circles. He looks horrible.

“Brian?” Dennis groggily calls once he’s in the main area of his apartment. He glances to his son’s room. The door’s still closed.

He’s about to walk over and check in when the sounds erupt once more. This time there’s no mistaking—they’re knocks on his front door.

The only person he’s expecting today is Mandy, but he can’t fathom why she’d arrive so early; she’s not supposed to come until after dinner tonight. Dennis wracks his brain for a reason, attempting to recall her mentioning picking up Brian in the morning instead. God, he probably wasn’t listening was he. He’d narrowly avoided being late on Friday night, but apparently it didn't matter because he was just going to fuck up something else anyway.

Three more quick knocks shake Dennis from his thoughts. He steps over to the door, takes a deep breath, and opens it.

Well. He’s definitely not expecting gangly legs and messy blonde locks to greet him through the open doorway.

“Goddamnit Dee,” Dennis curses under his breath, face scrunched in confusion. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too, asshole,” his sister responds, pushing past him and walking straight into his apartment.

“What are you—it’s five in the morning!”

“Actually,” Dee slurs as she points a wobbly finger in the general direction of the microwave. “It’s almost five-thirty. Learn to read a clock, dick weed.”

Dennis closes the door behind him. He raises his brows, arms crossed. “Are you drunk?”

The blonde flops unceremoniously onto the couch and extends both legs to rest on the coffee table. “Am I? Or are you?”

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Dennis breathes as he shuts his eyes and pinches his brow. “That’s it—I don’t care why you’re here, you’re leaving,” he finishes, turning to reopen the door.

“I’m not that drunk, okay?” Dee says as she springs up from her seat. “It’s only residual buzz from last night.”

“And why did you think it was a good idea to come all the way to my apartment from Philly?”

“I didn’t, I was in the area.”

Dennis scoffs. “Last night? Here? What were you doing, wandering around the abandoned streets of suburban Elwyn, trying to pick up old married men?”

“Oh screw you, Dennis,” Dee snaps before turning around and walking into the kitchen. She begins opening random cabinets, making her way down the length of the countertop.

Dennis follows behind her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Jeez, where’s all the food?” she mutters to herself, ignoring her brother’s question.

His twin opens the fridge and pulls out a container of leftover buffalo wings that she inspects with suspicion before picking one out, dropping the box on the countertop, and taking a bite.

“If you must know,” she says after swallowing, “I banged a professor from Swarthmore last night.”

“A professor,” Dennis repeats.

Dee shrugs as she takes another bite. “Yeah, he had his Ph.D.”

“His P.h.D. in what, did you say?”

Dee kicks the fridge shut with a _whump._ “I don’t know, Dennis,” Dee whines, waving the bitten drumstick in her hand, “do you ask everyone you sleep with what they have a degree in?”

Dennis goes taut, concerned eyes flicking to Brian’s door and then back to Dee. “Will you be quiet?” he hisses.

The blonde frowns, confused, and peers over her shoulder. “Is Brian here?” she whispers.

“Yes,” Dennis confirms reluctantly. “He’s sleeping.”

“Can I see him?”

Dennis furrows his brows. “What? I _just_ said he’s sleeping.”

“I meant later, boner. We can have some quality Aunt Dee time.”

“Since when do you care about being an aunt?”

“Oh I don’t know, since maybe around the same time you started caring about being a father?”

Dennis purses his lips, jaw clenched as he fights off a proper frown, and pivots. “You’re leaving.”

His twin drops her arms to her sides in defeat. “Goddamnit Dennis, I didn’t mean that, okay? I had a shitty morning and I’m in a bad mood.”

“Well that’s obvious. You’re being a bitch.”

“You're a bitch,” Dee counters.

Dennis exhales a deep breath, attempting to reign in his anger. “Dee, you can’t just show up at my apartment at five— _five thirty_ —in the morning without any warning—”

“Oh,” Dee interrupts, pointing the chicken wing at her brother as she feigns a pensive expression. “Hmm, I think I’m remembering someone crashing at my place for a full year after they accidentally burned down their apartment. Is that—is that right? Oh yes of course, that was you.”

Dennis sighs. She has a point and he really doesn’t want to get into _that_ right now. “Fine. If you shower you can sleep off whatever”—he waves a hand over her body, from her disheveled hair and smudged eyeliner down to her stained jeans and dirty converse—“ _this_ is on the couch. But don't you dare slobber on my pillows."

“I don’t slobber,” she scoffs as she bites into the wing again, buffalo sauce staining the corners of her lips.

Dennis responds with raised brows and Dee rolls her eyes. “No slobbering, whatever.”

“Daddy?”

Dennis freezes and Dee spins around, startled. Brian’s standing in front of his open bedroom door, clad in patterned dinosaur pajamas and rubbing one eye with a tiny fist.

“Oh shit,” Dee whispers. Dennis elbows her in the arm, pushing past and walking over to his son.

“Hey, buddy,” he smiles, pretending it isn’t completely absurd that his drunk sister is standing in the kitchen at 5:30 in the morning. He walks over, squats down, and puts a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Why’s Aunt Dee here?”

Dennis pauses. “Uh, well—”

“I came to see you!” Dee finishes for her brother, smile too wide as she joins them near the door.

Brian peers up at the blonde. “You look weird.”

Dee raises her brows, masking her offense with an awkward laugh. “Hah—okay. Well, you’re right. And that’s because I was…studying. Yeah, I was studying a whole lot with a professor last night. So I’m just gonna take a little nap on your dad’s couch, and then we’re all going to go to iHop and get some pancakes.”

Dennis turns his head, flashing a glare up at his sister. She shrugs in response.

“Pancakes?” Brian asks, eyes bright and mouth parted in surprise.

“Yeah, pancakes! Yay!” Dennis exclaims with faux excitement. “Why don’t you go back to sleep for a little bit, work up an appetite, okay bud?”

“Okay,” Brian smiles before embracing his dad with a hug. Even after a year the feeling’s still foreign—indescribable, even—and Dennis’ chest feels warm. He leans down and pecks the top of Brian’s sandy hair with a kiss.

He feels Dee’s eyes burning into the back of his head, so he breaks from the embrace and stands back up. He’s about to lead his son back into his bedroom, but before he can do so Brian marches over to his sister and wraps his arms around her legs in a hug.

“Oh what are you—okay, alright,” Dee laughs uncomfortably. “You’ve got quite the grip there.”

Brian lets go with a smile, then runs back into his room.

“Hey, slow down,” Dennis calls.

He watches his son climb back into bed before shutting the door. Then he turns around and faces Dee. “Why did you say that?” he whispers.

“I don’t know!” Dee hisses. “I always wanted mom and Frank to take us to iHop when we were younger—oh don’t give me that look, it’s the first thing that popped into my head, okay? I’m still kinda drunk.”

“Really? I hadn't noticed,” Dennis quips before walking into the kitchen. He picks up the the container of buffalo wings Dee had left on the counter, including the half-eaten one she’d thrown on top after Brian had appeared, and walks over to the garbage. He’d bought them in a weak moment the other night, but ultimately when he returned home he’d opted for a salad instead. They’d been sitting in his fridge untouched. He should get rid of them now before Dee trashed his entire apartment with buffalo sauce.

“You’re good with him, huh?”

Dennis pauses.

“It’s weird that you’re the one that ended up with all the maternal instincts. I can’t believe I’m saying this but, I’m kinda of proud of you.”

After clearing his throat Dennis dumps the wings into the trashcan. He ignores the comment, but it’s not lost on him. “You should get in the shower. After you nap and we”—he exhales a sigh—“ _go to iHop_ I’ll drive you to the train.”

“Yeah about that. I was actually thinking I could spend the day and go back Monday morning.”

Dennis turns. “What? Why?”

“Artemis and Frank are coming back from some sex convention in Jersey today and I don’t want to be around for that.”

“Oh God, that’s disgusting,” Dennis cringes.

“Right? Last time they came back from one of those they were so ramped up they banged for six straight hours on the pool table. Cues were involved.”

Dennis raises a hand. “Please never mention that again. Also, it’s your fault for hiring her.”

“Well we had to get someone to replace you Dennis, there was no way in hell Frank and I were running Paddy’s alone. And we all know Cricket doesn’t do shit besides smoke PCP in the bathroom.”

Dennis sends Dee a look, gesturing to Brian’s door. “Shh, will you?”

“Don’t shush me.”

“I’ll shush you all I want until you go take a shower.”

“Fine. But I’m getting the Breakfast Sampler and you’re paying.”

“Fine.”

Dee turns around and walks over to the bathroom door, stumbling over her feet and nearly tripping into the moulding.

Dennis rolls his eyes. He’s not sure how he’s going to get through an entire day babysitting both his son and his sister.

 

* * *

 

Mac leans against the metallic wall of the connecting car vestibule, the floor shaking as the train rumbles over the tracks below. Charlie stands opposite him with his hand latched onto the exit handle, staring out the open door at blurry green trees whizzing past. Elwyn is their first stop. Dennis’ stop.

“Have you heard anything bad about the market lately?” Mac asks, breaking their silence.

The shorter conductor turns to face him. “You’re gonna have to specify which market.”

Mac sighs. “You know, the stock market?”

“Oh. Why don’t you ask Mr. Jones?”

“Mr. Jones? Who’s that?”

“Y’know, that Dow guy.”

Mac furrows his brows. “What—are you trying to say Dow Jones? Charlie, that is not a person.”

"That’s kind of rude, don’t you think?”

“No,” Mac huffs, frustrated. “Dow Jones is not a human.”

“Then what is he?”

“I—it’s like a stock thing—I don’t know, but I can’t just go ask it questions!”

“Well that doesn’t make any damn sense because everyone’s always goin’ on about what does Dow say, Dow this, Dow that, clearly Dow knows a whole lot about the stock market!”

“Oh my god," Mac mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face.

Charlie cocks a brow. "Why are you so interested in stocks all of a sudden?"

"No reason.”

His friend doesn't look convinced. "Whatever you say," he shrugs before turning back around to face the open door.

Wheels screech as the train decelerates to a jerky stop. Charlie wastes no time bouncing down the steps and hopping out onto the concrete. He yells "Train to Philly!" before walking down the platform and out of Mac's view.

Mac pushes himself from the wall and descends the stairs. As usual, a group of commuters are already waiting to board outside, huddled around the door as they watch him with anticipation. He steps to the side and gestures to the door, signaling that they can enter. Like a pack of hungry wolves descending onto their prey, the commuters scramble to the door, forming a makeshift line as they prepare to climb up into the car one by one.

He knows Dennis always gets on the first car, but at first glance he doesn't spot him waiting in line. A swoop of disappointment suddenly churns in his stomach—what if he decided to board on a different car after Friday's events?

His worry is short lived because a moment later he spots the brown waves of Dennis' styled curls peeking through the crowd as he weaves down the platform. Mac watches as the man inserts himself toward the end of the line for the first car, pushing himself up onto his tip-toes to view those entering before him. Then he looks over his shoulder, mentioning something to the person behind him—

Oh.

It's then that Mac notices Dennis is accompanied by a woman. She's around his height but lankier, with blonde hair and a thin face. While the two are dressed as if they're strangers—Dennis in a pressed button-down and slacks, the woman in a wrinkly t-shirt, stained jeans, and tattered converse—the pair seem familiar with one another. Close, even.

The earlier sinking feeling returns to his stomach.

"Damn," comes Charlie's voice. "You think that's his wife?"

Mac whips his head to the side, startled by both his friend’s sudden presence and verbal confirmation of what he’d just been thinking.

“What are you talking about?” Mac asks a little too quickly.

Charlie cocks his chin in the direction of where the two stand chatting at the end of the line. "Davis. The guy you're gay for."

" _First of all,_ his name is Dennis,” Mac whispers with frustration. “Second of all, I'm not gay for him!”

“Really, man? You’re back with this again? You were doing so good—”

“No that’s not—just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m gay for every single guy I meet.”

“I get that,” the shorter man replies, “but you seem pretty gay for this one.”

Mac rolls his eyes. He doesn’t reply to his friend’s comment, but after a few silent moments he adds quietly: “You really think that could be his wife?”

Charlie squints, examining the pair in the distance. “Can’t tell for sure. From what I can see they don’t seem very affectionate, but that’s pretty standard in marriages nowadays.”

Mac exhales a deep breath from his nose, frowning.

“Listen, don’t worry about it Mac,” Charlie continues, looking around subtly as if he’s checking to see if anyone’s watching them. “We can, y’know, get rid of her,” he whispers.

“What? Dude, we are not killing anyone! Especially not her!”

The woman currently boarding the train flashes them a strange look.

“Nah nah, calm down. I’m just gonna convince her she doesn’t want to be married to Davis anymore.”

“Charlie, we don’t know if they’re even—”

“It’s a foolproof plan. I go in, introduce myself, flirt a little. I’ll get to know her. Then naturally she leaves her husband because she’s so in love with me, y’know? Now, Dennis is upset. He’s distressed. Heartbroken. That’s when you swoop in.”

“Let me get this straight. Your plan is to seduce Dennis’ wife so she’ll leave him for you, and then you want me to use his pain to make him fall in love with me?”

“Yeah. Isn’t it genius?”

“No, Charlie! That’s absurd!”

“You’re not getting it. So _I_ go in and seduce the wife—”

Mac had been so occupied arguing with Charlie that he hadn't noticed how quickly the line shrunk as passengers boarded the train. Heart skipping in his chest, he spots Dennis and his companion only two places behind the man currently stepping into the car. He quickly elbows Charlie in the arm.

“Ow, what’s that for?”

 _“Be quiet,”_ Mac whispers through his teeth. “They’re right there.”

His friend waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry. I got this.”

“No, _Charlie_ —”

Then Dennis and the blonde are next in line, standing perpendicularly to the conductors as they talk to one another.

“Why hello there,” Charlie calls to the pair as the passenger before them starts boarding the train. Their heads turn toward him and Mac, breaking from their conversation and acknowledging the conductors for the first time. “Fine morning, isn’t it?”

Mac takes a deep breath. There’s no way in hell they’re going through with Charlie’s plan, but he might as well take advantage of the current situation. He exhales and swallows his nerves.

“Hey Dennis,” Mac says, smiling softly. 

The brunette’s blue eyes meet his own. He’s silent for a moment, but then returns Mac’s greeting with a small, polite smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Hi.”

“What, are you friends with train conductors now?” the blonde asks Dennis with an amused brow, pointing between Mac and Charlie.

“Well,” Dennis smiles awkwardly, “I wouldn’t say—”

“We all met the other day, miss,” Charlie interrupts.

“Huh,” the blonde says, eyeing him strangely.

Dennis grabs the woman’s arm and tugs her toward the door. “C’mon Dee, let’s go. I want a good seat.”

The blonde—Dee, Mac guesses—gives the two one last suspicious glance before following Dennis up and into the car.

Once they’re gone and the final few passengers board, Mac turns to Charlie.

“What the hell, man!”

The shorter of the two shrugs. “What? I thought that went well.”

“What are you talking about? That was extremely awkward!”

Charlie shakes his head. “C’mon, you just have to have a little patience.”

“Screw this, Charlie. I’m out,” Mac grumbles before marching up the stairs into the car.

It’s not that Mac hadn’t considered the possibility that Dennis could be straight. Of course he had. It’s just that he’d allowed himself to hope he wasn’t, as naive as it was. Seeing him with someone that could be his partner—a woman, especially— crushed something perched inside his chest.

He’s been so stupid.

Mac hears his coworker closing up the door behind him, and a few moments later the train jolts to a start. He snaps the ticket puncher in his hand, signaling his presence to the train, and starts his zone near the door. As he collects one passenger’s ticket at the edge of a booth, Mac glances down the car. He catches a glimpse of Dennis and Dee at the other end, squished in a two-seater facing his direction. He flicks his eyes back down to the ticket in his hand, snapping two holes in it with his tool, and then hands it back to the customer.

Suddenly, Charlie squeezes around him and walks down the car, skipping his usual route to stop right in front of Dennis’ seat. Dee, who’s sitting on the outside, looks up.

Mac’s going to kill him. He purses his lips, inhaling through his nose, and follows.

“Can I see your tickets?” Mac hears Charlie ask. He watches Dennis flash his commuter pass silently.

“And for your wife?”

Mac stops in his tracks, now only three seats back from where Charlie stands. His eyes dart from his friend to the sitting couple.

Dee turns toward the conductor at the comment. “Us?” she snorts, huffing out a laugh. Then she’s hysterical, pointing at Dennis beside her. He looks mildly horrified.

Suddenly the blonde’s face contorts from laughter to disgust as she chokes out a gag. “Oh god, I’m gonna be sick,” she manages before sticking her tongue out and dry heaving.

Charlie’s brows shoot up his forehead, glancing back at Mac with a knowing look. “I’m sorry—are you two _not_ romantically involved?” he says a little too loudly.

“Christ, of course not,” Dennis snaps at the short conductor. “This is my _sister.”_

“ _Ohhh,_ I see. I see. That’s good. Now let me ask you—are you in a relationship with anyone in general?”

Dennis knits his brows, frowning. “What? Why does any of this matter?”

Charlie scratches behind his ear. “Well, there’s uh, a new couples discount?”

Mac’s about to interrupt—a couple’s discount is the dumbest lie he’s ever heard—but then Dee waves her hand, her dry heaves finally ceasing.

“This one?” she snickers, “Oh no. He’s never had a relationship that lasted longer than two weeks, if it could even be considered one.”

Dennis’ eyes flash at his sister, his face turning a dark shade of red. Mac can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or angry, or both. His lips press into a thin line, face crimson, and for a moment Mac expects the man to snap completely. _“That’s,”_ Dennis breathes, exhaling. He clears his throat and places a careful smile on his lips. “Very funny, Deandra. But to answer your question…no.”

Charlie nods. “Okay, no problem. Well if you do, y’know, get in one, let us know—”

That’s it. Mac can’t take this any longer. He walks over and places a hand on Charlie’s shoulder.

“Charlie," Mac cuts in, fake grin painted on his lips. “Why don’t you head over to the second car?”

“Why?”

Mac opens his eyes wider, serving him a warning look.

His friend lifts his head and opens his mouth as if apprised of a secret. “Right. The second car,” he repeats. Charlie gives the seated pair a quick smile before turning around and walking down the aisle.

“Sorry about that,” Mac says after Charlie’s gone. “Where are you headed?” he asks Dee, pulling out a ticket from his pocket.

She turns to her brother. “Wherever you’re getting off is fine, I guess.”

“Elwyn to Suburban, okay,” Mac answers easily as he punches holes in the ticket slip. “That’ll be seven dollars.”

Dennis’ gaze flicks to Mac at the comment, their eyes catching one another. Mac quirks up one end of his lips, smiling gently.

“Ahem?”

Mac blinks downward. Dee's holding up seven singles, brows raised.

“Thanks,” he says, accepting the money and pocketing it. He looks between the siblings—Dee’s lost interest and is now playing some sort of game on her phone. Dennis is staring out the window. The back of his neck is still red.

Mac clears his throat. “Well, have a nice day.”

Neither respond.

Mac cringes as he walks away. He can’t believe Charlie was stupid enough to pull this kind of dumb shit, but he can’t ignore the giddy wave of relief warming his chest knowing that Dennis is Dee's brother. And that he's single.

He’ll let Charlie off the hook this time.

 

* * *

 

Dennis hates his job.

Logically he knows most people do, but sometimes it feels like a personal affront, as if a curse had been bestowed upon him and only him. Even as horrible as Paddy’s was at times, at least he had control over his shifts and access to free alcohol. Now things are different, to say the least.

At first the thought of working at a financial consulting firm seemed impressive and prestigious. It’s not his preferred cup of tea as far as careers go, but it’s an acceptable field nonetheless, especially for someone whose only professional experience includes working at a bar for nearly two decades. Despite Mandy’s father having the connection, which was a blow to his ego, for sure, he accepted her pleas to find a more suitable profession to help support their son. She'd agreed to move out to Pennsylvania to give the joint custody a chance, so he figured he'd make a sacrifice too. Admittedly finance and money in general wasn’t his forte, but the pay-grade increase was certainly appealing.

It wasn’t until his first day that he realized his role was a bonafide administrative assistant. Most of his responsibilities include maintaining his boss’ calendar—who’s a total bitch, might he add—coordinating meetings, and answering phone calls. Sometimes he throws together decks for team presentations and fills out Excel files, two activities which were beneath the level of education he’d received at Penn, so he’d never bothered learning to use those applications properly. Every day is the same: the hours drone on and on, dumb assignments and fake congenial coworkers draining every ounce of motivation he’d mustered in the morning.

Dennis moved to Elwyn purely to be closer to Brian, since Mandy had opted for suburban Swarthmore over Philly. God knows why. Working a new job and commuting was quite the adjustment, which came to a head after last year’s traffic incident. At the time he'd contemplated moving back to Philly or even quitting and finding something out in the suburbs instead, but ultimately he’d decided the the cost of moving back and the effort of job hunting was too much for him to handle. He started going to his psychiatrist regularly, saw Judy too at Mandy’s behest and, well, here he is now. Forty years old, commuting into the city to work a job he hates, too tired to do much aside from take a shower and watch television when he arrives home. How unoriginal.

It’s all for Brian, Dennis knows. If his lackluster life means he’ll be a better father than Frank was to him, then hell, it’s worth it. Even if it means he sometimes feels lost. Alone.

Thankfully he’s able to leave the office at his usual time today, making it to Suburban several minutes early. When he gets there the train’s already parked on the platform, allowing passengers to board as they arrive. He strides down to the first car and steps through the doors.

Several people are already seated across the compartment. After this morning’s episode, he just wants to have a quiet, peaceful ride home. Of course Dee would get him into some goddamn ridiculous, embarrassing situation. He wonders how many people witnessed the whole exchange—how dare she bring up his love life in front of a bunch of strangers, and have the audacity to portray it so incorrectly? He dated Maureen Ponderosa for five weeks in the eleventh grade, so she’s wrong.

Dennis walks down the car until he reaches the very end. He sits on the horizontal bench that faces the bathroom, placing his bag on the empty space beside him. He never sat back here because he's always been afraid of the stench, but surprisingly he doesn’t notice anything. The seats perpendicular and diagonal from him are facing the opposite direction, so it’s almost as if he has the entire back corner to himself, a little alcove of his own.

He fiddles with his phone for the next few minutes, skimming news articles and scrolling through emails he has no intent to answer. Commuters filter into the train, and when their arrivals pick up pace Dennis figures it’s getting closer to departure.

After most have taken their seats, he hears the final slam of the car doors being shut. The train lurches forward several moments later and rolls to a start.

For the first two stops he sits in peace, silently playing Candy Crush on his phone. He’d allowed Brian to download it onto his iPad and somehow he’d gotten sucked into it himself.

Whatever. He doesn’t hate it.

It’s not until they leave University City that Dennis hears footsteps approaching his area. At first he assumes it’s someone on their way to the bathroom, but when he glances up and spots greased black hair and stubble he double takes.

It’s Mac.

The man smiles as he walks over to the opposite wall, blocking the bathroom and facing Dennis. “Hey.”

Dennis reaches for his bag, beginning to open the large zipper. “I have it—”

“No you're good, don’t worry,” Mac says. He swallows. "Sorry about this morning. Charlie can be a little nuts sometimes.”

“I guess it’s understandable," Dennis shrugs, eyes flicking down to his phone as he pretends to scroll through more emails, most of which are actually ads from Bed Bath and Beyond. "Even for a fraternal twin I don't look anything like her. Thank God.”

He expects the man to respond with another polite apology, say goodbye and move on, but he hears nothing. Sensing Mac's unmoving presence across from him, Dennis looks up.

The conductor’s watching him with those big brown eyes, the beginnings of a smile gracing his lips. It’s the same expression he’d worn Friday and this morning, like he’s some stupid dog waiting for his master to drop him a bone. It’s irritating, frankly.

What’s even more irritating is that Mac’s greeting this morning outside the train had made his chest feel tight again. He’d blamed the unwarranted bodily response both on Dee’s mortifying presence and his lack of sleep the night prior—his sister had kept him up until midnight after Mandy had picked up Brian, rambling on and on about her newest acting pursuits. Last year, Dennis would have laughed off any such conversation and slammed his bedroom door in his twin’s face before beginning his nightly bed routine, but Judy had recommended he be more “attentive” and “open” to hearing others’ “thoughts and opinions.” So he’d stayed up the entire night listening to Dee’s drunken anecdotes, most of which included Artemis and Frank, two people he really couldn't give a shit about. Naturally he was exhausted the next morning and nearly late for the train, so of course Mac’s greeting would affect him a bit.

Long story short, it’s all Dee’s fault. That bitch.

Mac tucks his hands into his pant pockets and leans back against the wall. “Anyway, uh, how was your day?"

Dennis blinks. “Fine…I guess,” he answers hesitantly, confused by the conductor’s attempt to pursue a conversation. The guy might have helped him out of a jam the other night, but that hardly made them best buds. Although based on the man’s behavior this morning and now, it seems Mac would disagree.

“Same,” Mac replies. He cocks his head and raises his brows as if just remembering something. “Although this one dude earlier kept blasting a Nickleback song out loud, the one that’s like _‘look at this Photograph’_ or whatever, so this other guy takes the sandwich he’d been eating and is all like”—Mac drops his voice and bends his arm, pretending to be the man in question— _“Look at this, bitch!”_ and throws it right in his face.”

Dennis raises his brows, snorting. “No shit?”

“Yeah,” Mac chuckles. “It was pretty funny.”

Dennis quirks his lips. It was pretty funny, he’ll admit that. Who wouldn’t be tempted to throw deli meat at someone listening to Nickleback?

Mac grins at him, cheeks pink. “Yeah, lunch shifts can get weird,” he says.

Something comes over Dennis at the sight of the man’s blush, and he can’t believe he hadn’t realized it before. He’d thought Mac was just over-enthusiastic about his job, maybe a bit socially inept like his clearly challenged friend, but he sees it now. The soft looks, the dopey smiles.

The guy’s attracted to him.

Dennis’ heart quickens in his chest and he feels his face grow hot. It’s not that he's interested in Mac himself—that would be bizarre. A _train conductor?_ Absolutely ludicrous.

Plus, he only slept with women.

Okay, so he may have put his dick in some of his frat brothers' mouths in college and drunkenly hooked up with a guy or two years ago, but that was a joke and he barely remembered the latter encounters. It didn’t mean anything, obviously. Not that he has a problem with being gay or bi or whatever, but he isn’t.

It’s only the attention that’s making his body respond to his newfound discovery in such a manner. Dennis knows he’s attractive to both women and men alike, so it’s not unbelievable that some random gay train conductor would be into him. And it’s not like the guy’s hideous—he has nice bone structure for sure, and even though the slicked hair is a bit garish paired with the stupid tattoo and stubble, it’s not…unpleasant. Mac’s attractive enough, so even if Dennis isn’t attracted _to_ him it’s just reassuring that an attractive-ish man would find him attractive. That’s all. Obviously.

“So that Dow Jones, huh?" Mac says, breaking the silence. He shifts his balance onto his toes, rocking forward and back with a nervous smile.

Dennis knits his brows, confused at the random change in conversation. He opens his mouth, about to form some sort of response when Mac continues on anyway. “Do you work in Center City?” he asks.

He pauses, considering the question. Dennis could end the conversation right now, make some excuse about a phone call or an email or anything really, but if he was being honest he didn't mind indulging the man’s attentions. It was refreshing. “Yes. About ten minutes from Suburban Station.”

The conductor nods. “Cool. What do you do?”

“I work in financial consulting.”

Mac’s face lights with a wide grin. “Oh dude, I knew it.”

Dennis raises his brows.

The man’s cheeks darken and he shifts awkwardly. “I just mean, you’re always dressed fancy so I figured it was something important. Like financial stuff. So do you like, work with stocks or whatever?”

Dennis hasn’t even engaged in the actual business of his company outside of sitting through meetings to take notes, let alone worked with goddamn stocks. Also, he doesn’t dress any fancier than the other commuters on the train. His style’s business smart at best, though he does appreciate a good designer shoe, but he can see how his outfits would seem impressive to a guy who’s obligated to wear the same short-sleeved cotton button up and ugly slacks every day.

He could laugh off Mac’s comment and correct him, but seeing the expression on his face—genuine admiration, as if Dennis was some important, powerful guy—felt nice. He enjoys the recognition, that’s all, and obviously he’s been lacking that from the female department lately.

“Sure, yeah,” Dennis answers with a small smile.

“Oh that’s awesome, man. So you live out near Elwyn then?”

“Yeah,” Dennis confirms. “I’m in Elwyn.”

“Cool, cool,” Mac says, hands tucked into his pockets once more. “You from around here originally?”

“Mhm,” Dennis hums.

Mac smiles. “Me too. Philly born and raised.”

Dennis would guess that despite the shared location, their backgrounds were entirely different. He doubts a man who works as a train conductor had a college education, especially from somewhere as prestigious as UPenn. Then again he’d spent the majority of his own life working at a dive bar, but that was besides the point. He’d chosen to engage in that lifestyle because he knew at any moment he could use his degree to get a real job or finally apply to veterinary school.

“Have you always been a…conductor?” Dennis asks in response, unsure of what else to say. Typically he doesn’t have these sorts of conversations unless he’s trying to pick up a woman, and he’s a little rusty to say the least. It’s been a while.

“Me? Nah,” Mac says, leaning back against the wall. “I used to sell weed.”

Dennis’ raises his brows. “Wow, okay,” he chuckles awkwardly, surprised at the man’s frankness. “Should you be saying that out loud?” He looks around to the passengers nearest to them—no one seems to be listening, too engrossed in their phones or music to even notice the two men chatting. 

Mac shrugs. “Charlie’s the only other staff in this car and we go way back. Plus I’m a black belt in karate, so none of these jabroni’s want to mess with me.”

Dennis raises a brow. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Mac responds, clearly not catching onto Dennis’ sarcasm. He pushes himself up from the wall to mime a few motions which Dennis assumes are supposed to be karate chops.

Even though his brows are knit in confusion, Dennis struggles to hold back the amused smirk that threatens his own lips. It’s only because the guy’s so ridiculous. Obviously.

“Anyway,” Mac exhales, somehow out of breath after a few moves even though he’s allegedly a black belt. He leans back against the wall. “All the weed stuff happened a long time ago. ”

“Hm. I take it you’ve been here for a while then?” Dennis asks.

“Four years. Wasn’t always the Elwyn line, but yeah.”

Dennis imagines being at his current job for four years. He shivers.

“I haven’t seen you around for that long though,” Mac continues. “Did you used to live somewhere else?”

Dennis nods. “Philly. I moved out to Elwyn for…more space.”

It's not entirely a lie—his current apartment is larger than his last one in Philly, mostly because he could afford the size with the cheaper cost of living and higher income. But if Brian and Mandy had moved to Philly instead of Swarthmore there was no way in hell he’d ever have lowered himself to living in the suburbs, extra space be damned.

“Oh yeah, that must be nice.”

At that moment a man steps up from his spot several rows back and begins walking over to the pair. Both men watch at him as he approaches. When he’s near he stops, looking between them.

“Excuse me.”

Mac pushes himself from the wall, shoulders squared. He faces the passenger and squints his eyes. “You got a problem?”

The man looks away nervously. “Uh, no. I just have to use the bathroom?”

The conductor’s brows raise and his expression softens. “Oh! Of course, sir,” he says politely, moving out of the way and toward Dennis to let the man pass. When the passenger opens the door the space becomes cramped, so Mac shuffles closer to Dennis and rests his side against the wall next to where he sits so that they're a foot apart. This close Dennis can smell the man’s cologne wafting toward him, somehow sweet smelling but woody at the same time. It’s not wholly unappealing.

Dennis glances to Mac’s forearm, which is now level with his line of vision. His eyes trace the loopy dragon tattoo, black and bold on his light skin.

“So you got any big plans tonight?” the conductor asks, jerking Dennis from his distraction.

He swallows and flicks his gaze back up to the man’s face. “Huh? Oh, not really. Just dinner.” That sounds pathetic even to his own ears, so he leans back against the wall with an air of confidence, chin raised. “Some _coq a vin,_ a side of _tartiflette_ , and a glass of _Chenin Blanc._ You know, the usual.”

Again, not a total lie: he’d be having dinner as soon as he arrived home, although that wasn't quite what was on the menu. While he considers himself to have a refined taste in food, he’s not much of a cook himself. Realistically, his meal tonight will most likely consist of a bagged salad—with the croutons picked out, of course—canned soup, and one glass of two-buck red wine if he felt up to it.

“I have like no idea what all that means, but it sounds nice,” Mac replies. “I’ll probably order Mexican or something—oh, have you ever had Que Chula’s?”

Dennis hasn't heard of the place, but most likely it's somewhere he’d avoid eating anyway. He hasn't had Mexican food in years. 

"No," he answers.

“Oh dude, you gotta try it. The crispy steak burrito is to die for.”

He raises a brow. “Sounds like a heart attack.”

“Come on,” Mac smiles. “You gotta try it at least once. I don’t think they’d deliver out to Elwyn, but you could have them bring it to you at work for lunch.”

“Oh, I don’t do lunch.”

Mac pulls his brows together. “What do you mean?”

Dennis sighs, strangely nervous. “I just…it’s always so busy, with all the financial advising. It makes sense to skip, you know?”

In actuality, he's allowed an hour for lunch. He found the extra calories a waste of time.

Mac frowns with concern. "Dude, that does not sound good. Like that’s really unhealthy.”

Dennis wants to snap at the man—who the hell is he to say what’s healthy or not? A train conductor who eats goddamn fried steak burritos? It’s a miracle he hasn’t died from heart disease already. Although he seems fit enough—his arms are nicely toned and muscular, though not overly so. Even though those are just his glamour muscles, Dennis can tell through the cotton uniform that his chest and abdomen are in shape too—

Wait, what the hell was he thinking about? Maybe Mac was right. He shouldn’t have let himself go without food for so long. He was feeling a bit lightheaded.

“You should at least have a snack,” the conductor says.

Dennis blinks, swallowing. “I’ll try that.”

A silent pause passes between them.

“Yeah, I’ll have Mexican tonight,” Mac muses to himself after a moment. “Maybe watch that new Dolph Lundgren movie on Netflix.”

Dennis perks up his head, eyes wide. “You like Dolph Lundgren?”

“You mean the greatest, most badass actor of our generation?” Mac responds. “Uh, duh. He’s totally, uh, what’s the word—”

“Underrated?” Dennis chimes in.

“Underrated! Yes! That’s exactly what I was thinking!”

“Totally underrated,” Dennis repeats.

“Dude, _Missionary Man?_ One of my favorite movies.”

“I’m more of a _Dark Angel_ guy myself, but that’s also a good one.”

Mac’s face lights up. “You should totally watch the new one tonight too—I forget what it’s called but it's like one of those direct to Netflix movies? I don’t know, but there’s like giant guns and shit in it.”

Dennis grins. “Sounds badass. Yeah, maybe I will.”

Mac returns the smile, their eyes locked on one another.

The bathroom door suddenly swings open, the man from earlier walking out and down the aisle, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Dennis clears his throat, breaking his eyes away. Neither say a word for a few silent beats.

“Well,” Mac breathes, straightening from the wall. “I should uh, get to collecting everyone else’s tickets. If I don’t people will start taking advantage of the system, which is a whole thing, so…”

“Yeah, uh, I’ll bet.”

“I’ll see you before you leave,” he says, taking a few backward steps as he moves to enter the center aisle.

“Alright.”

Mac smiles, taking another step backward and almost knocking completely into the seat behind him. He stumbles a bit, hand fumbling to perch on the cushion, but manages to keep his balance. His face reddens and he gives a final wave to Dennis before turning around. He pulls his ticket puncher from his belt and clicks it a few times, catching the attention of the passengers in the nearest seats.

Dennis exhales a deep breath. That was definitely one of the strangest conversations he’d had in his life—and he’s cousins with The Snail, for fuck's sake—but he’d somehow…enjoyed it? At least he knows the guy has good taste in movies. If he was going to humor a man's interest solely to enjoy a little attention, it might as well be someone who appreciated a true artist like Lundgren. 

Yeah, he’ll have that glass of wine tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As ususal comments and feedback are appreciated. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and thoughts are always appreciated (and motivating). Thanks for taking the time to read!


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